The Eye of the Storm
by Evee.Lynn
Summary: Dust. It accumulates over time. Ignore it and it will thrive. An eternal reminder of the now. An endearing memory, neglected opportunity. A scar you are trained to heal and cherish. Wipe the surface clean, only for it to flourish again.
1. Shadow With a Name

_Disclaimer: The geniuses over at Ubisoft Montreal own Assassin's Creed and Altaïr__. La dee da.  
_

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Chapter 1 – Shadow With A Name

An adrenaline rush pumped through his veins as the faceless shadow flew gracefully from the roof-tops, blocking the sun with a magnificent flowing silhouette. This was his life. He was everywhere. He was no where. He was a liberator of lives. He was a killer. His passing gaze reduced you to a quivering mess, and his stoic bearing caused you to wonder of the demon lurking beneath the glorious angelic façade.

Abdul-Qadir, an arms merchant in Acre, was found asleep by his wife in their home on the hill. Blissfully unaware, she lightly placed a hand on his shoulder, and shook him awake. But of course, he did not stir. A deep gash on his neck let flow a trickle of crimson down the young woman's finger tips. Pale. Cold. Lifeless. Sitting in a pool of his own blood for hours unnoticed.

A scream echoed throughout the land. An anguished scream. A tormented scream. A scream known to him as accomplishment. An indicator of success. The Shadow pulled the once pure white feather from his habit, and examined it as red dyed its surface, spreading like a wildfire as if his victim's heart were still beating within. Soon, a happy wind weaved through the stiffened fringe, and the colouring turned to a deep burnt auburn, encasing in it the tattered remains of beauty.

Slipping into the darkness, he walked calmly along the streets, chuckling silently as news travelled of the poor merchant's demise.

A man in white, they said.  
A ghost, they said.

Nevertheless, he need be cautious. His presence was known in the city, and one wrong step could jeopardize his mission. He found a free spot on a bench in the far corner of the square, watching the scrambling of panicked citizens.

To his right, was a man clad in an ankle length robe and a vacant, distant stare. His hands were dirty and calloused, his beard unkempt and dull. Sandalled feet were rough and chalky. His mouth half open, as if in mid-sentence. Altaïr Ibn La-Ahad, who has dealt with death all his life, could've sworn this man stopped breathing. His faith in society extinguished; his soul teetering on an imbalanced scale of peace and destruction. This was the worst way to die. Why the Creed lives.

To his left, was a woman dressed in a traditional brown robe and a billowy cream skirt diligently embroidered with the small image of a dove on her hip. The loose threads allowed dust to catch in the hoops; the poor virtuous creature now undertaking the burden of life among the streets. Its wings were securely sewn to the faded fabric, delicate and soft. Its hem was feathered with dirt, and the woman's worn gloved hands were painfully gripping an open leather-bound book on her lap. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Her attention turned up from the pages every so often, scanning the crowd for something. Someone. Searching for an answer that she couldn't seem to find within the text. Her face was partly hidden beneath a dusty pallid_ hijab_, and Altaïr soon caught himself staring at the soft outline of her eyes, nose and lips through the thin fabric in the hazy sunlight. Head swivelling dead ahead, he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to drive away the unwanted distraction. He heard her shift uneasily, crossing her legs, and resting the novel on her knee. _What causes her such anxiety? _Hesitantly peeking around the visual boundary of his hood, he felt the sharp sting of shame. Of betrayal. But no matter how much he willed it, his thoughts would always return to her. _Why?_

She was no one special. Her back was hunched, her sleeves torn, and her neck was blotchy and sunburned. Her nose crooked, possibly broken, and her thin, dry mouth was pursed and parched. She licked her lips in a vain effort to remedy the cracked and broken surface while the fluttering of every page disturbed the innocent pecking of a flock of pigeons nearby.

He was startled when the book slammed shut, but maintained his composure as the woman stood up and turned to give him a warm and knowing smile before turning away. Those eyes. So expressive. So secretive. She seemed to float amidst the crowd, the stream of people uninterrupted by her ethereal existence, gently manoeuvring her way through throngs of the uncertain public to the other side of the square with ease. He felt compelled to follow her. There was something about her that was familiar, reminiscent, and safe. And yet his feet were bound to the ground, forever affixed between death and an unreachable freedom, forever affixed by the Assassin's Creed.

* * *

Author's Note:

_Oh wow. I'm truly surprised you made it all the way down here. Thank you so very much. I'll keep it simple. Yes, I love fragments.  
No, I won't promise it'll get better, and no, I won't even promise I'll update any time soon, if not at all. It's my first time posting, but by all means, flame away.  
Yes, Altaïr the creepy stalker. Lovely character, don't you think?  
__  
And yes, it's short. I really haven't gotten around to the whole concept of a 2000-word chapter. Who knows? It might be able to pass as a one-shot. Probably not.  
__Anyway, have fun. Write happ__y.  
__  
- Lynn. _


	2. Ally At The Bend

_Disclaimer: If I owned Assassin's Creed, you could press the centre of the direction pad and Altaïr would whip out his water wings and do a little synchronized swimming routine in the river.  
But he can't. 'Cause I don't. _

* * *

Chapter 2 – Ally at the Bend

_Damn. _  
"Assassin! Stop!"  
An inquisitive guard saw a shady figure crawl through the curious latticed roof-opening marked with the telling symbol of the Hashishins.  
_How careless of me! Leading them to the Bureau…_  
Altaïr made quick work of the lone soldier, but his shouts already captured the interests of many on the ground.

Quickly fleeing from the location so as to not allow additional men to pinpoint the now vulnerable entrance, he leapt from roof-top to roof-top, ensuring that he was in full view, drawing them away. He winced at the thought of the incident reaching Al-Mualim, and the savage beatings his master will unleash upon him for such negligence.

He flew from one end of the city to the other, all the while collecting more and more soldiers until all you could hear were heavy footsteps and the harsh clanging of chain mail and drawn weapons resonating in every corner. With an army trailing behind him, he hardly noticed the wall of archers that was now stationed on an archway to the east. An arrow whizzed by his neck, and another nicked his left shoulder, drawing little blood, but enough to cause him to lose his footing, falling off a thin beam connecting a hospital and a Cathedral.

He managed to grab onto a ledge with one hand, legs dangling several feet, but even so, his heartbeat remained steady. Slow, but loud enough to create an incessant pounding between his ears. It's been a while since he had a good chase.

There were shouts from curious residents below, and a particularly daring beggar woman bluntly sentenced him to a public display of his dismemberment in the town square followed by eternal damnation. _You should sharpen your tongue vagrant, as it is your only weapon. _Using his heel, he nudged loose a chink in the clay wall, letting dust rain on the poor unsuspecting crowd. Last time he checked, connecting his boot with the backside of an innocent was not breaking a tenant.

In return, a fist-sized rock came out of nowhere and struck his knuckles. He landed agonizingly on his back behind the church's garden, shielded from sight under a cherry bush. The sling of his short sword riding on his shoulders dug into his flesh, easily penetrating the little padding his few layers of clothing provided.

The recent rainfall created peculiar shaped puddles in the cracks of the cobblestone road, and Altaïr greeted the frigid moisture soaking into his sleeves with a shudder down his spine, and a shaky intake of breath that put a heavy and icy weight on his chest. He lay there frozen for what seemed to him like hours, and yet the commotion around the corner suggested meager seconds. The opportunity of rest was invaluable, and he reveled in every moment of it.

The fools. They didn't even follow his landing. He propped himself up on his elbows, one of which sunk into a large muddy divot where a tile was overturned. _Well, it will be a while._ Turning a cheek to the skies, he saw a small white orb hang among the fading stars as a tiny glint of orange rose beyond the horizon. A brilliant fire climbed upward ever so slowly and melded with the surrounding powder blue heavens. Everything glowed in an eerie purple light; the steeple's long and lean shadow falling into the streets.

He closed his eyes, and drew a mental map of his pursuers' numbers, ranks and position suggested by their aggravated barks over the civilian balconies.

The foreign tongue grew closer. _Ah. Finally._

Darting up, he leapt over an iron fence, made a sharp left near a pottery stand and turned to see an empty alley at the bend with nothing but a towering wall. A flat wall. An occasional cracked brick, and a young vine no thicker than his thumb flapping wildly in the wind, unsheltered from the relentless elements.

Coming to the dead end, the other alternative to climbing was to fight. He was up for the challenge. He could take them all without blinking. But he had done enough. Leaving behind a pile of dead and dying men was not the type of subtly the Creed found acceptable.

He roughly wiped the sweat accumulating on his brow with the back of a bruised and bloodied hand, and with a sigh and a hand on his hip, he decided the fun was over. He must hide. The coward's way out. But where? They were closing in. If he stepped out now, he was sure to create a scene. He looked around for any possible means of escape.  
…Wait! _A ladder?_

How could he have missed it? There it lies. In plain sight all along. It was hidden in the darkness, in the looming shadow of an English flag. The mark of King Richard, a hideous burden over the Holy Land._ Was their God protecting them?_

No matter. Altaïr lunged at the rungs, but before his foot found rest on one of the steps, he felt a bitter breeze down his collar, and a cold, smooth hand surround his wrist.  
He gritted his teeth, and instinctively his fingers balled into a hard fist, activating the mechanism, releasing his hidden blade, extending so naturally like it was his own flesh and bone. The metal felt cool against his skin, hair standing on end, welcoming the feeling of impending bloodshed, and almost instantaneously, the blade dove in the direction of his assailant.

It stopped short.

A heartbeat away from two deep cerulean eyes. So expressive. So secretive.

* * *

Author's Spiel:

_S__orry about that little chappie mix-up yesterday. I didn't mean to upload. It still had a few kinks to work out.  
_

_And sorry again. Looks like another MARY-SUE. Well, hopefully not. She was bound to make an appearance eventually. To be honest, I've been planning this story since I started playing AC back in mid-November, long before the category was even up. The problem was actually writing it.__ Anyway, thank you for all the reviews and support. Feedback is greatly appreciated. I'll try to lengthen chapters, even if it means combining them to a magically incredible number of over 1500 words a post! Yeah, I'm not impressed either._

_Note, there are many talented writers out there that _like_ to give you the particulars of every last nook and cranny, zit and freckle, and number and placement of hairs in an eyebrow. Many readers find that fascinating, the indication of literary genius. Sorry to disappoint. I just don't work like that. If you have any suggestions, please comment and I'll see what I can do.  
Best regards.  
_  
_- Lynn._


	3. Stars in her Sword

_Disclaimer: I do _not _own Assassin's Creed. I _do _however, own a Dwight Shrute bobble-head. Which I love, by the way.  
_

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Chapter 3 – Stars in her Sword

Hardy decipherable. Words, breathy and uneven.  
"Quick. This way."  
Blurs of white, red, blue, then nothing. The slam of a heavy wooden door behind him, and bulky fingers fumbled with a latch. A gust of air danced around the room. It was stale and musty. All too familiar. Groping in the dimly lit space, bright flashes entered his peripherals while he adjusted to the sudden change in atmosphere.

"Stay silent."  
His tongue seemed to disappear under her command.

Sweaty palms against the wall, he listened.  
"_Where is he? Did you lose him?"_

A plethora of shouts and inconclusive replies to the simple yet still unanswered question were muffled through a blockade of recent events and conflicting explanations now clouding his judgement. The haze before his face soon dissipated and was replaced by a shower of glitter falling passed a spotlight. A thin beam of sunlight; its origin a mystery. It was still morning.

"Secure the exits, and make a thorough search of all the buildings in this district. Archers, come with me. Now!"  
_Listen to them. Crude. What shrill means of communication._

There was a clamouring of armour as soldiers ran to their posts, while others stayed behind, painstakingly knocking on every doorway to find the concealed slayer. His thumb circled dangerously over the switch at the base of his little finger.

"They will be coming soon." A voice from the left, calm and collected. Soothing yet stern.  
Soon after, a heavy wooden projectile came flying out of the dark. Holding his hands to his face, he caught it, somewhat awkwardly, slipping from his fingers and impulsively lifting a knee to balance it before it hit the floor. His hands hovered over the object.

_A taut line of twine. _He let the cord roll in his fingertips. _No, sinew. Trigger…_  
He grinned. _Qaws Ferengi._ A cross-bow.

"An arrow is loaded. Stay hidden."  
There were tentative steps to a second floor above. She was gone.

Using the small amount of light emanating from the crack in the foundation, he saw the vague outline of a bookshelf adjacent to the stairway. He ran.  
Three loud knocks sprung to his ears, stifled but audible. The soft mumblings of two distinct men, and her. Silence. A door creaking open. Hilt scraping against the side of its sheath. Sword drawn, a soldier descended the steps.

Lifting the cross-bow slowly to eye level, he was sure not to bang his elbows on the obstacles of his hiding place. _Stay silent. _He held his breath, and swallowed hard.  
Finger laced around the trigger he waited for his target to come into sight.

A head. Quick release. Ping. Thud.

Another creak. Another life. He reached for a throwing dagger on his belt, but returned it when he saw a petite and delicate silhouette.

A gloved hand lit an oil lamp which lent its warm glow to its radius.  
A light mist of scarlet stained her neck. Drops of blood lying in perfect domes on the oak table captured the reflection of the flame, flicking with her every move. He noted the slick red stiletto now jutting out of her leather-bound fist replacing her left ring finger.

Leaning back on the desk, arms crossed, he shook his head in disapproval. "How unclean."

She sneered at the observation. "I was not designed to kill."

He lectured. "An assassin never leaves evidence. Especially on your person."

Forehead glistening, a small raven curl draped itself across her brow. Tucking it back into her head scarf, she let out an irritated sigh. "I am not an assassin."

"Then you have no right to carry our blade." He paused. "Clever concealment, although sloppy execution." He motioned to her shaky hand.

A rumble in her throat. She would no longer take such an evaluation. Seething, "Oh, I've heard much of you Altaïr. I must say, their description of you is _flawless._"

He cocked his head to the side with an expression of inquiry and pride of his infamous name within the brotherhood. _Grand Master. _A title, just words, but with it came an unwritten licence to use cadets as foot stools.

His eyes closed, recollecting his master's foggy and distorted speech a few weeks prior. "And I you. A spy was it? What have you to say?"

Turning to the doorway, she gave a passive wave. "Not a _spy_." The word rolled off her tongue with a tinge of disgust. "An informant. And what I have to say is for Al-Mualim's ears only."

Removing her glove and flinging it to the corner, she unlatched the metal band around her arm, welded to it the representational hidden blade. A red and swollen ring surrounded her wrist which screamed for air and circulation from the unyielding steel prison. Unceremoniously wiping her weapon with a fraying damp cloth that materialized from nowhere, she slumped against a dusty cupboard, lips taut in aggravation, despondently settling on a location to dispose of the bodies scattered throughout the house.

Shining gloriously in the candlelight, the stars in her sword seemed an extension of the sky, a gift from heaven. She couldn't have been more than twenty, but her sun-stained skin and freckles down her neck added the mask of decades of experience. _Those eyes…they plead for an audience. That much is obvious. But to whom do they lie?_

Gaze darting from her hands to the floor, she cleared her throat to stifle a laugh. _Caught._ Leaping from the counter, he stood erect, hands to his sides, attention fixated on a particularly interesting stone on the opposite wall.

He was bested by an amateur. And a woman, no doubt!

A subdued smile poking from the corners of her lips.  
"You know, it's not polite to stare."

* * *

"Shabina." He drawled out every syllable slowly and tapped his fingers on his gauntlet in rhythm. Lifting his chin, he made a lopsided smirk. "How appropriate."

Evidently, her attempt at a formal introduction was lost on him, and she recoiled at this somewhat, unexpected, and probably unintended, flattery.

The heavy hoof beats of a captain's stallion reverberated through the flooring and swiveling to the window in alarm, she quickly drew the curtains with such force one of the hooks ripped through the garish patterned fabric, the frigid evening breeze slipping through the partition. Spinning round, she huffed:  
"Do you mock me, brother?"  
Arms crossed, legs extended, rocking back and forth on a rickety stool, he shrugged his shoulders, his dirt encrusted fingernails still rapping on his equipment.

She had insisted they go upstairs before sunset. _"Have we remained hidden in the basement after hours, it would certainly raise suspicion among the guards should they pass again, looking for their fallen comrades."_

Of course. What logic. _This young one has much to learn._

Busying herself with a cabinet on the opposite end of the room, her hand disappeared into the back and blindly groped in the assortment of unlabeled jars and bottles. Fingers slinking around the necks of two glass flasks, she swiftly manoeuvred her way out of the delicate glass forest as the gentle tinkling of the edges brushing against each other vibrated through her bare fingertips. Dragging the bottoms against the shelf, she carved through the thick layer of dust revealing a cracking and deep stained pine finish.

Leaving one vile on the counter, she popped the cork of the other, nose to rim for verification. She reeled and felt her eyes sting, the substance earthy and pungent, bit her lip, and emptied the contents into a mortar and pestle. It was some sort of dried plant, its colours dull and faded. Vervain. The second container was filled with unmistakable yellow petals which were wilting slightly, evidence that the herb was purchased recently. Calendula, an antiseptic.

The crackling of crushed flowers and grinding marble against marble mingled with the sounds of a wind chime outside the kitchen's door. She swept the powder into a pot of hot water with her finger, the flowery aroma now diluted but still lingering on her sleeves. Hovering over her station, she grabbed a clean white cloth beside the basin and soaked it in a cool water bath.

After several minutes of silent effort, she walked over to Altaïr and thrust a steaming bowl to his face with one hand, and evenly folded the damp towel in half by sticking a thumb down the seam and jerking it upwards, flipping it onto itself. She did not look at him, nor he at her. She choked out, "…For your cut."

He sat motionless, and then unfurled his beaten and broken hand, the fingers of his left tracing a mountainous scab on his knuckles.

It was a deep maroon spider-web laced around the base of his thumb to his wrist, its centre a disgusting triangular hole, still glistening, puncturing the surface. It traveled into every crack, the endless trail of a red river with a frozen current, drying in the crevices of his sun-burned skin.

Seeing his feigned ignorance of her goodwill, she callously dropped the cloth into the clay bowl, letting drops of the murky concoction fly and wet her fingers. She dumped it on the counter by his head, agitated, turned a heel and promptly left the room.

The next morning she found a stiff and crumpled towel near the foot of her bed, tinted pink and yellow around the edges. The gentle tinkling of the wind chime lifted her from her uneven slumber and down to the kitchen.

He was gone.  
And so were her curtains.

* * *

Author's Note:

_Oh, the cheese!  
I'm floored by how many reviews I got for those first two chapters. Thank you so much!_

_And unfortunately, this is going to be, approximately, the wait between updates.  
Regards._

_- Lynn._


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